


The Wickedy Witch of Carnegie Hill

by amybeegood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: "Poor amnesiac himbo Ben-bless his heart", (Loosely Based), Adorable, Alpha Ben Solo, Alpha rut, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Amnesia, And By Clueless I Mean He Has No Idea He's An Alpha, Author Needs Something Fluffy and Fun to Distract In Between Other WIPs, Awkward Boners, Baking as a Coping Mechanism for Extreme Horniness, Biting, But of Course We May Have Some Angst, Clueless Alpha Ben, Cuddling & Snuggling, Definitely Need to Address Ben's Obsession With His Roommate's Ass, Enchanted AU, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Knotting, Magic, Magical Elements, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Maybe Some Anal IDK, Miscommunication, Omega Rey (Star Wars), Once They Figure Out How To Communicate, Oral, Praise Kink, Rey Knows Magic and Isn't Afraid to Use It, Rey Will Teach Him What He Needs To Know, Roommates, Size Kink, Sweet and Dirty Smut, Tags will be updated as needed, The Happiest of Ever Afters, This one will rot your teeth out for sure, a/b/o dynamics, all the sex, because i can't help myself, but not too much, smutty smutty smut, so much consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amybeegood/pseuds/amybeegood
Summary: What happens when the fairy-tale princess is actually a bit of a wickedy witch?In which Rey isn’t quite the sweet, helpless little nobody Ben thinks she is, and Ben doesn’t even know he’s an Alpha.Rey knows plenty of Delightful Magics and Foolproofe Spells to help him remember, and she plans to convince him to help her take back her Kingdom once and for all…just as soon as she gets one more kiss.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 145
Kudos: 310





	1. The Lost Prince

# Chapter One – The Lost Prince

Not so long ago, today, actually, in a galaxy quite close to here, if you can believe it, there lives a lost prince named Ben Solo. Only he doesn’t know he is a prince because nobody has yet to tell him he is lost. In all truth, he thinks he's right where he's supposed to be, perfectly in place, just where he belongs. He doesn't know any better. And also, he has amnesia.

He knows about the amnesia, of course.

They were able to tell him this much after they found him wandering Central Park wearing nothing but a pair of black, high-waisted trousers, shouting curses at a mounted police officer and demanding the officer relinquish his horse immediately so he could return to Chandrila in due haste and smite his most grievous foe, once and for all.

The police officer refused to surrender his mount and instead judiciously invited our good prince to cease hurling insults or he’d be forced to arrest him.

“Arrest?” Ben had sneered, with an overabundance of haughty conceit, not at all appreciative of the officer’s threat, “ _Me?_ Don’t you know who I am?”

The officer confirmed matter-of-factly he did not, in fact, know who Ben was, and, admitting Ben made an excellent point, ordered him to produce some identification or face the full consequences of his disorderly conduct. Rather than submit to such offensive demands, Ben, quickly realizing he also had no idea who he was, jumped at the frustratingly inquisitive peace officer, fully intending to pound the man into a pulp for his insolence.

Without question, Ben was unable to stop the taser bolt from jarring him into unconsciousness, and this is what the doctors claim to be the source of his amnesia, although Ben doesn’t necessarily believe them.

But he found himself in a perplexing conundrum and was unable to produce any hints at his identity other than to assure the medical people all around he was quite sane, only momentarily confused.

They declined to believe him, and so he was compelled into a most horrible garment – called a straight-jacket, even though it contorted his arms into a not-so-straight position – and was forced to endure in stoic silence, refusing to speak another word, until his best friend Hux fetched him from his erstwhile prison, otherwise known as _The Mount Sinai Hospital Psychiatric Ward_.

Ben did not recognize the copper-haired man who alleged to know him, but he was thankful enough to escape that dreadful place and be brought "home" to an apartment full of things he doesn’t remember buying with money he doesn’t remember earning.

It’s in a very nice neighborhood, though, and once he got the hang of living in New York City, he quite enjoys it here.

He enjoys ninety percent of it.

Eighty-five.

He mostly likes it.

After all, he has just about everything a man could want and no real reason to be unhappy.

He lives in something called “a classic six” located in a good part of town, owned free and clear, an inheritance from a long-dead relative, according to Hux. He also owns a thriving business that he actually is rather proud of – a bookstore called _The World Between Worlds_ – and it is staffed with loyal, funny employees whom he also generally likes. And he has friends. Not a lot of them, mind you, not so many that he wouldn't mind a few more, but good ones, loyal and amusing, and caring enough to drag him out to see the occasional Broadway show or to watch a basketball game at Madison Square or – he suspects they draw straws for this – to invite him to dinner for the holidays, since he has no one of his own to cook for.

They even do a fair job of covering their pity by insisting he is only invited because his pies are the best.

This is plausible enough, as he knows his pies are damned delicious. Baking is his hobby, when he isn’t reading books.

Yes, he even likes the city itself for the most part, and though he often feels lonesome amid the hurrying, clamoring, ceaseless bustle, he also feels perhaps a new adventure might be awaiting him just around the next corner, if only he is brave enough to deviate from his routine.

Not that he has any plans to stray off course just yet. But perhaps someday he will. It’s enough, for now, to know the possibility of opportunity lies within reach, at his fingertips, if only he stretches out a hand to grasp it.

It’s only…lately, his thoughts have taken on a rather morbid turn. He’s been anxious for no reason, irritated and grumpy with everyone, even Rose, his very favorite employee at the bookstore.

So this afternoon, when she pointed it out to him and ordered him home early to reconsider his grouchy ways – or, in her words, “quit being such a royal asshat to the only people on Earth willing to put up with your shit” – he took her scold to heart, apologized sincerely, and popped over to the coffee shop next door to pick up his cupcake trays before trudging home.

“Rose give ya the boot again?” Finn asks over his shoulder, giving the countertop a final wipe down as he closes up for the evening. Finn owns the place and introduced himself shortly after Ben’s amnesia incident.

Having no idea if they already knew each other or not, Ben very politely listened as the handsome, slightly younger, dark-complexioned man took his quiet perusal as businesslike interest and proceeded to divulge a proposition. Finn wanted to team up and offer the patrons of either of their businesses a small discount with proof of purchase.

Ben thought this was brilliant and agreed on the spot, making his first major business decision post-amnesia, or as he calls it, PA. Since then, they’ve been fast friends and Ben likes to bring cupcakes for Finn and Finn's employees, in exchange for free coffee whenever he wishes to have some.

Rose also declared their arrangement a spectacular plan, and, although Ben sensed at the time her declaration was inspired more by Finn’s warm, dark brown eyes and engaging smile, her comment bolstered his confidence immeasurably.

Business is good, he likes his life, and he has no cause for complaint about the quiet pace of his daily routine.

“She said I was being a grumpy old man and nobody would buy any books with me lurking around,” Ben grouses, careful of Finn’s freshly mopped floors as he makes his way to his cupcake trays stacked neatly on the table near the back.

“You never go home early. It’s good for you. Everyone needs a break from the ordinary once in a while.”

“You should try it yourself,” Ben grumbles, but without any true acrimony. Finn opens at four in the morning and closes by four every single day, in what Ben privately thinks of as the most horrendous work hours imaginable.

This is why the bookstore opens at a civilized nine o’clock and stays open until the last employee standing feels like going home. It’s usually Ben, since he doesn’t have anything better to do, but not today.

Apparently.

The sky is already darkening outside. This time of year, the sun sets at around four-thirty, and it will be fully dark by the time he gets home.

He half expects a jaunty rejoinder or some continuation of Rose’s earlier lecture, but Finn only shakes his head and calls out, “Have a good night, Solo!”

Ben ducks out of the coffee shop, feeling outcast without knowing why.

Well. Perhaps this isn’t totally true. He sort of knows why.

In truth, he probably should feel more outcast, really. Because if anyone knew his secret, he would most likely end up locked away in an institution somewhere, a military experiment facility, perhaps – they _have_ places, if his brief visit to the Psychiatric Ward was any indication – and then what?

The unknown of this possible future is enough to coerce him to keep his head down and his mouth shut and his nose in a book, where things are safe. At least with his books, he can dream and read and the characters are all so remarkably reliable – the same, every time, no matter how often he returns to them – and he has his routine, which never varies. His therapist tells him how good it is, to keep a steady predictability to the rhythm of his life, and since he doesn’t have the energy to find a new therapist and he doesn’t see the point in quitting therapy – at least it’s someone to talk to, right? – he goes twice a month and chats about things. Sometimes dark things and sometimes ridiculous things, but never the things that really matter.

Things about his urges. His darkest, most shameful needs.

Like how he’s occasionally visited by a nearly uncontrollable desire to bite a woman when he’s mating, er, having intercourse, that is. Or how he has a normal, healthy sex drive, just like any red-blooded man, but sometimes it’s a bit…much. As in copious amounts, much.

As in he could go for days and days, and most ladies can definitely do a good hour or two, but they always _say_ they’re athletic and up for whatever challenge, and they never _are_. They’re always done when he’s just getting started.

Not to mention he’s certain he’s deformed, actually a mutant, probably.

He’s never, ever told anyone about this, and he doesn’t intend to. And since he has absolutely no clue whether he was or was not actually raised near a nuclear power plant or wastewater treatment facility or perhaps experienced the unintended result of a mad science project gone terribly, terribly wrong or was maybe the subject of a visit from alien lifeforms who decided to bestow upon him certain… _powers_ , he simply lives with it, his abnormality.

Besides, he’s pretty much given up on the idea of ever having sex with a woman again.

He goes to the doctor, sure, has his checkups on a regular basis, makes sure everything is tip-top, even had his cholesterol checked, after Hux informed him his thirtieth birthday had come and gone. He takes responsibility for his health or tries to, even though he doesn’t like the doctor’s office one bit, not after his eventful _PA_ experience at Mount Sinai.

But he did seek medical attention that time when the glands on the sides of his neck swelled up.

Thankfully, this did not result in another straight-jacket, and the doctor couldn’t find anything wrong and ordered him to rest and drink plenty of fluids and to call him if the swelling didn’t go down after a few days.

And it _did_ …only…Ben didn’t spend his time resting at all. He drank plenty, though, even if he suspected bourbon was not at all the type of fluids the doctor meant.

His face flushes red when he remembers what he did instead of rest.

Furious at the doctor’s lack of urgency and unreasonably agitated, he’d gone to the corner magazine stand and bought himself three different porno rags and took himself home and locked himself in his apartment, got roaring drunk, and spent the next three days jerking off with a bulk-size bottle of baby oil and sleeping and eating every bite of food he could get his hands on.

That’s when he initially discovered he was a mutant. Down there.

It freaked him out the first time it happened, even though he was way too gone to call 911 over it.

What if someone _saw_ it and… _arrested_ him or something? Does a person get tasered _every_ time they are arrested? He doesn’t know and he really doesn’t want to find out, and he’s too embarrassed to ask.

He still isn’t totally sure how things work around here, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize his nice, perfectly boring apartment, with the closet full of nice, perfectly boring clothes, and a nice, perfectly boring bookstore within walking distance, just a few blocks away. He prefers to keep things simple and nice. And perfectly boring.

But every six months or so, he is overcome by the most intense urge to… _breed_ , and he doesn’t know much but he definitely knows if he tries having safe, sane, consensual sex with _anyone_ when _that_ urge hits him, he and the women of Manhattan are all better off if he sticks to his routine and locks himself away until he’s sure he can once again trust himself to behave like a safe, sane, normal person.

He’s just glad he can always tell when an episode is coming on.

It always starts with his nose.

He can smell everything, _literally_ everything. It’s about the only thing he truly hates about living in New York, actually, how god-fucking-awful it can stink sometimes.

So, when a customer wearing too much cologne enters the coffee shop next door or he can smell the dog shit on the person’s shoe from half a block away or discern what flavor of gum the customer at the back of the store is chewing, he knows it’s time. He’ll ask Rose to cover for him, tell her he’s coming down with the flu or something, and needs a few days at home so he doesn’t get her sick, too.

And since he pays her well and she likes working at the store, she always chirps, “No problem! I’ve gotcha covered, Mr. Solo! Feel better!” Then he can pop down to the liquor store for his huge bottle of Maker’s Mark and grab a few pornographic magazines on the way home and skulk back to his apartment for a few days of filthy, disgustingly depraved self-love and some semi-moderate alcohol abuse until his condition clears up again.

The magazines he prefers because these he can throw away without anyone being the wiser once it’s over. Sure, he _could_ do what everyone else does and go on the internet, but somehow looking at porn on his phone for days on end feels too disrespectful for everyone involved, himself included. Besides, none of it is _wet_ enough or _hard_ enough or lasts nearly long enough. And there’s never any biting. And nothing after they finish, either, which he always finds vaguely emotionally disturbing. The _after_ part of sex is the best part, at least in his mind, and certainly not something to be shrugged off. The after is when it should be time to snuggle in and breathe his partner’s scent and just…exist with her.

He isn't totally sure about this last, since he can't remember having ever actually done this. But he knows porn on the internet isn’t at all what he needs.

At least the magazines allow him to use his imagination a little.

With the magazines, he can pretend having an enormously large cock that swells slightly at the base and ejaculates obscene, bed-wrecking volumes of semen is totally fine and normal and maybe even kind of sexy and praiseworthy.

He can imagine maybe there’s a nice girl out there somewhere who smells like his idea of heaven and actually likes his giant, mutant, monster dick and wouldn’t run away screaming or side-eye it with a nervously muttered, “shit, you weren’t joking when you asked if I could take a lot, were you?” when he finally works up the nerve to show it to her in all of its tremendous, erect glory.

He can dream of someone not raising an eyebrow when he not only wants to sniff her underwear and rub it all over himself, especially his neck, oh, fuck, that’s just _wonderful_ , but who also wants to do the same thing with his shorts after he’s worn them around all day.

The first time he invited a lady to spend the night _PA_ , he was _quite_ surprised when she loudly proclaimed she most certainly did _not_ want to burrow into the dirty laundry he’d left so conspicuously and – he thought! – _courteously_ available, scattered near his bed, in case the urge struck her to frolic around in it for a bit.

After this, he toned down the laundry thing, but no woman really wants to stick around for long if and when he does manage to secure her interest and convince her to sleep with him.

Yes, he definitely imagines that he will someday find someone who can actually handle getting fucked senseless for more than a couple of hours before she taps out and suddenly remembers an urgent appointment or a funeral or that she’s legally changing her name and moving to another town first thing in the morning.

A man can dream.

And in the meantime, he has his store and his friends and his nice, quiet, only occasionally disrupted routine, which is in itself a routine.

He has a very nice life. And he likes it just the way it is.

Mostly.

But fate has a way of making itself known. And so, as he marches crankily home with his cupcake trays tucked firmly under one arm, rudely barreling through the river of uncaring pedestrians swarming the streets without remorse – it’s too bad for them if he’s bigger and has longer legs and can move much faster and, if they don't like it, perhaps they ought to watch where they are going and not the other way around – his nose is tickled by the most elusive, interesting scent.

In all fairness, it doesn’t even occur to him not to follow it. Why wouldn’t he? The scent is faint but unmistakable…not familiar, no, but something in the neighborhood of _familiar_. Like home. Like baking?

Not quite.

It’s… _sweet,_ though. A new bakery opened up? No, no. That’s not it.

But his jaw tingles and whatever he’s smelling, it’s making his mouth water.

He sniffs again.

It isn’t time for another one of his episodes – he just had one a few weeks ago – and his heart thuds with panic as he considers what happens if he’s off-schedule.

But he continues on. The scent, whatever it is, lures him, summons him, and he follows it, happy for once to be out of work so early or he might have missed it.

He walks for several blocks and the scent grows slightly stronger, but he realizes very quickly it is coming from farther away than he previously estimated.

And he is overcome by a strong sense of urgency.

_Panic. I’m smelling panic._

Instantly, he drops his cupcake trays and begins to trot down the sidewalk, through an intersection where he is forced to pause and slap the flat of his palm onto the hood of an oncoming taxicab while the driver vociferously hurls semi-intelligible wrath and revs the engine in threat.

“Psychiatric Ward!” he flings back to the shouting driver, the best insult he can devise on the spot, under the combined pressure of manic, rush-hour traffic and the burgeoning alarm in his chest.

The scent quickens into fear and he bursts into a run, heading to the Park.

Here, the crowds have thinned out a little and he trots into Central Park sniffing the air. It dawns on him this is near the spot where he was found.

_Yes. Stronger here._

He doesn’t hesitate and instead sprints full speed in the direction of that lovely, elusive perfume.

And when he finds a small crowd of concerned pedestrians huddled around a sobbing woman wearing the most outrageous costume, he shoulders his way through.

It’s her. That glorious, delightful smell is coming from _her_.

His mouth drops open and he stares.

Tears sparkle like little diamonds on her eyelashes and her head perks up when he approaches. With caution and ignoring the grumpy admonitions of “Hey!” and “Watch it, bub!” from his fellow onlookers, he stands as close as possible while still being polite.

Her costume is like something out of one of his fairy tales, a sparkly silver gown with huge hoop skirts and a low-cut bodice that cinches her waist into nothingness and makes him salivate when he imagines spanning the circumference with his hands.

Round, smooth little shoulders peep out from the tops of her oversized, puffy sleeves, and he licks his lips at the sight of abundant freckles scattered over her collarbone and décolletage, noticeable even under the glare of the well-lit Christmas lights lining the path.

Those freckles will have him drooling in a second, but when she sees him, she gives him a tremulous smile and simply murmurs, “Oh! Alpha!”

_Oh. Oh, shit._

He isn't quite sure what she means, but her beaming smile and evident relief at his appearance are definitely enough to arouse certain things – certain appetites – in him that have no business being in the proximity of such a soft, pretty little thing.

But even the threat of behaving like a beast in this precious little lady's presence is nothing compared to his overwhelming urge to protect, which he instantly submits to. Much to the crowd’s astonishment and his own, he bends to scoop her into his arms before any horse police show up to taser and arrest her for being disorderly.

The crowd disburses when she loops her arms around his neck, anyhow, and he wants to purr and when she flutters her eyelashes and queries, “Are we going to your house then, Alpha?”

Still not entirely sure who “Alpha” is, but figuring she can call him anything she wants so long as she keeps looking at him like this, he nods a gob-smacked agreement and grunts, "Uh-huh."

He swallows a mouthful of saliva and tries not to let his eyes roll back in his head when she presses her delightful head to his shoulder.

Heaven. This is what paradise feels like. Sweet, warm curves under a ridiculous, fluffy dress and delicious, delectable aroma.

Almost drunk on it, he inhales a deep lungful of her heavenly scent and bears her back through the Park, striding across the intersection and over the sidewalks with a new sense of purpose, totally fine with this disruption to his nice, perfectly boring routine and completely happy to bring utter bedlam - though he doesn't know it, yet - into his nice, perfectly boring apartment in Carnegie Hill.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the deal, friends. I KNOW I have a bunch of WIPs and I'M WORKIN' on them. I promise, I am. (In fact Body of Work is almost finished, and I'm super excited about it.)
> 
> But.
> 
> I'm tired. I'm kinda lonely. I've been basically isolated, 98% by myself, since March 12th. That's six months. I am staring down the barrel of a long, cold fall and probably winter, too, before I am able to go back to my office and have a semblance of a normal life again, if that's even going to be a thing after we get a handle on this pandemic.
> 
> I need something fluffy and funny and different. Maybe you think I'm crazy for posting a new story when I have so many yet undone, but I'll finish my WIPs, I will. And in the meantime, this one's bringing me a lot of joy and it's light and fluffy in a way that none of my other WIPs are right now. I'm going to try to get updates out at least every couple of weeks, and I don't think this will be a terribly long fic. 
> 
> Just something I wanted to throw out there in case anyone else needs cheering up. *winks*
> 
> Sending hugs and love and reminding you all to tell your loved ones you love 'em and (to my U.S. readers) if you can vote, please plan on it. 
> 
> Stay safe out there, my darlings! Xoxoxoxooooo!  
> 


	2. The Wickedy Witch

# Chapter Two – The Wickedy Witch

A week ago, Ben Solo never would have believed in love at first sight.

However. This was before he plucked this lovely handful of a girl from the cold Central Park sidewalk and bustled her away to safety. Now, it’s plain as day that love at first sight is very much a _thing_ that can _happen_ and he quickly reevaluates his perspective – formerly and recently pessimistic – on fairy tale endings.

Only.

It’s just…

 _Well_.

He wonders if the Girl feels a similar stirring in her heart as he trundles her sweet-smelling, soft, defenseless person to the only sensible location he can come up with on such short notice.

His place.

At first glance, it might appear unseemly, as if he is perhaps taking advantage. Which is the last thing he intends, really.

But, he certainly doesn’t want her to end up somewhere awful – say the Psychiatric Ward of Mount Sinai Hospital _,_ for example – and she seems genuinely confused as to her whereabouts, disoriented like he was _PA_ , although she also seems to know him and keeps referring to him as _Alpha_ , which sounds odd to his ears, but also somewhat comforting.

He isn’t sure why or how he’s taken such a rapid interest in this little lady. He only knows that before he found her, his days trudged on in shades of gray and now everything is vibrant with color, as if perhaps he was merely waiting his whole life for just this moment, meeting her.

He ought to make sure she’s warmed up soon, though, particularly after she burrows into his heavy winter coat, but his heart swells when she declines to allow him to set her down so he can bundle her up in it. She obviously prefers for him to carry her and he wholeheartedly agrees this arrangement is quite, quite delightful.

“We’re not far, this is my building, up ahead,” he assures her, dropping his voice to his gentlest, most non-threatening tones. He would rather die than scare or frighten her, especially as helpless as she is, so tiny in his arms.

Her soft little hands clutch around his middle under his coat and she pushes her nose into his armpit and he has the _strangest_ sensation she’s… _sniffing_ him. He’s been surreptitiously inhaling her scent all this time, too, and he would call himself crazy, but he would swear he can smell how she’s feeling, almost.

She does it again, unabashedly taking another whiff and his cheeks turn a bit pink for he finds this gesture bizarrely erotic. Mentally, he chastises himself. His thoughts should not be turning in this direction, not when he really ought to be worried whether he’s worked up a bit of a sweat from hauling her across the Park and several blocks to his home. After all, New York women are so very _particular_ about smells and odors and sweating to the point they constantly douse themselves in heavy quantities of perfume and chemicals to cover their natural scents. And they like the men to do it, too, which Ben finds vaguely disturbing.

How does anyone know what the others are thinking or feeling if they can’t smell anything properly?

He prefers not to wear a scent, himself, though he is often asked what cologne or aftershave he wears.

But he can immediately tell whatever delicious aroma is emanating from her pores is a natural part of her biology, too, not a manufactured fragrance purchased from a department store.

She burrows in, and he wills himself not to get aroused when the tiniest, daintiest, most feminine moan emerges from her and the cute little turned-up end of her nose snuggles into his chest, sending skyrockets of pure joy shooting all the way to his fingertips.

His cheeks turn pink and maybe the tops of his ears, too, but when he enters his building with only a slight glimpse of curiosity from his doorman, he manages to master his expression into something he hopes appears normal and aloof and not at all indicative of a man undergoing a series of significantly life-altering moments.

Stepping into the elevator and reluctant to set her afoot until he absolutely must, he sneaks another covert glance down. She has shiny, chestnut-colored hair done up in an elaborate style, and lovely, delicate brows that frame sparkling hazel eyes flecked with green and gold and gray, and a pert little nose set over a well-proportioned mouth, and his heart skips a beat when he catches sight of dimples in her cheeks. Dimples. One of his biggest weaknesses.

And freckles, glorious freckles dusting every inch of her creamy skin. Ah, now these are just adorable, and he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life counting them and naming them and maybe even kissing them if she’ll let him get close enough to–

He wonders if she has freckles _everywhere_ and his cheeks go from rosy, which he might have attributed to the chilly air, to _red_ , much warmer than before as he considers all of the other places where freckles and dimples might be, just waiting to be discovered. Perhaps he can blame his flushed face on the slight strain of physical exertion, even though she hardly weighs anything at all, and carrying her all this way only makes him feel more energized and stronger than ever.

And for the first time, he is quite glad he’s big and muscly, even if it’s intimidating to many and entirely out of fashion according to the man who tailors his clothes. Nevertheless, here, at this moment, he’s thrilled that his brutish build can finally come in useful for a change, that he can do something besides reach cans of tomatoes for little old ladies at the bodega and change lightbulbs without needing a stepladder. Yes, being tall and strong is a good thing and not scary at all, if it means he can heft the Girl around with no trouble at all, and besides, she seems just as reluctant to be set on her feet as he is to put her down.

Eventually, however, he must dig out his keys and unlock his apartment and – there’s a brief scuffle with her skirts as she forces them through the door ahead of them, flashing him a glimpse of shapely ankles and trim little calves covered in pale lace stockings, the sight of which sends his pulse into a full skip – he shows her inside where she clutches her hands to her bosom and does a spin, right in the middle of his living room, while she looks around and exclaims, “Well this is just _lovely_! Much better than I was expecting!”

“Er,” he stutters, “ahhh, thank you?”

She sighs in near-rapture and rushes to the window that overlooks the neighborhood, which is lit only by streetlamps and ambient light from other windows. And she declares again, “Just lovely!”

He privately agrees and does his best not to develop a very awkward reaction to the sight of her swishing skirts dipping and bouncing around his apartment or the graceful way her hands, gloved to the elbows, alight on everything around her, a stack of books, an old brass desk clock, a potted plant that is barely hanging on. She’s surely the most feminine thing he’s ever, ever had here in this otherwise quite manly enclave.

“You live here all alone?” she queries, ducking her gaze and prodding at a well-upholstered throw pillow.

“Uhh, yes.” She seems a bit stymied by the pillow so he offers in what he hopes are helpful tones, “That’s for decoration.”

Hux had to explain the same thing to him when he came here PA. Ben’s heart warms at the thought that maybe the world actually is as confusing a place as he’d previously assumed, only just for some people, not for everyone. He’s positive this girl feels it too, an out-of-placeness, a disorientation of being dropped into a strange land where things don’t make as much sense as they should, a bewilderment over knowledge that others assume to be commonplace, and it’s quite nice to feel not so awfully all alone.

“You can stay here with me, uh, until you…figure out what you want to do about your amnesia.”

Her spine snaps straight and she gives him a calculating stare.

“Amnesia? What amnesia?”

This makes his own spine stiffen a bit straighter in response. Horrified – perhaps he’s made a terrible mistake or even worse offended her – he blurts out, “Oh! I shouldn’t have assumed!”

Hell, perhaps he isn’t equipped to handle someone _else_ with amnesia if he already has it himself. Perhaps he ought to call someone, although he almost immediately strikes this idea as a bad one. Better if he doesn’t risk someone carting her away to the Psychiatric Ward until he can establish her identity.

Then she asks the most perturbing thing of all. “And just where _are_ we, exactly?”

“Well, New York City, of course.” He draws himself up and says more formally, “This is the Carnegie Hill neighborhood. Upper East Side?”

She gawks, adorably baffled, and he wonders if perhaps she took a knock to the head or maybe the horse police already tasered her and just left her there in the Park instead of arresting her.

“We’ll need to get you some different clothes,” he mutters, eyeing her ball gown with trepidation. “You can’t wear that around Manhattan, not in this weather. It’s going to snow any day now.”

“Snow?”

Her eyelashes tremble in a series of enchanting flutters and a suspicious wetness gleams in her gaze – _tears, oh, shit!_ – and he quickly soothes, “It’s all right! I can, um, help you. Er. Don’t be afraid.”

He’ll need to buy her some clothes is all, and he is thankful Hux showed him right away how money works around here. It seemed strange at first, using a little card to pay for things, particularly because he was under the mistaken impression one used coin or traded for goods such as live chickens or seasoned firewood or well-made cloth or leather when one needed something, but no. Not here.

Of course, he caught on quick enough after a day or two at the bookstore, and now he knows all about money and even has a checking account and a savings account and he’s got some in the stock market, too, although at first Hux had to explain that stocks in New York are in fact _not_ large, wooden devices meant to restrain criminals for public exhibition, as Ben previously thought, but rather a sort of gambling that everyone with money does and it somehow, magically produces more money over time. And if the actual mechanism of it all escapes him, Hux has never steered him in the wrong direction yet and remains, until further notice, Ben’s only and most reliable source of answers for the world’s mysteries, particularly in regard to personal finance.

While he ponders the clothes problem, she’s already flitting down the hall, peering into the guest bedroom, which he mostly uses to store inventory for the bookstore, and the powder room – which he never uses since he doesn’t care to wear powder – and his office-slash-den where, aside from the kitchen, he spends most of his time. But when her slippered feet head for his bedroom, he sucks in a deep breath of air as he realizes she’s _not_ just poking her head in there for a quick look around, she’s going _in,_ and oh, damn, after another tussle with her skirts, she’s made it through the door.

Following and hovering nervously in the doorway, he watches her gather up her voluminous skirts and pop into the master bath and hears a few giggles when the faucets turn off and on and then, oh then, she does the most terrifying, _wonderful_ thing and dances back out and plops herself onto his bed looking for all the world like a fluffy, frilly, _delectable_ little princess sent straight from his horniest imaginings to simultaneously delight and torment him.

It takes a few minutes to form words and actually get them past his teeth since his mouth has gone dry and at the same time managed to fill with too much saliva. Her scent mingles pleasantly in the air with his, and she’s getting it all _over_ the covers and he’s never washing them again, _ever_ , it smells so fucking delicious.

“Is _this_ where I sleep?” She gives him a mischievous smirk and he nods, temporarily dumbstruck. He’ll make do in the guest room, obviously, of course, absolutely. He’s a gentleman, and he would never in a million years imply they should – _together_ – she hardly knows him, and no, it wouldn’t be at all the proper thing to do, even if the thought of snuggling up next to her for a whole entire night sounds like his personal idea of heaven right about now.

“You can sleep in here.” His voice is all scratchy and low and he clears his throat. She _should_ sleep in here. He glances around nervously, wondering if it’s good enough. It’s not bad, and it’s the best he can offer unless she wants to go to a hotel.

But hotels are strange places and wouldn’t provide nearly the hospitality or understanding for her predicament as he can, and besides, his bed is much larger and more comfortable than anything in a hotel. He won’t be needing it, anyhow, seeing as he’s going to be awake all night. He’s positive he’ll not catch a wink of sleep knowing _she’s_ in here, in his bed.

“Uh. You’re welcome to borrow something to sleep in. A t-shirt?” He scrambles to his dresser and frantically digs through it, searching for something suitable, only she’s so small, and he’s almost certain he can span her waist with his hands, and he doesn’t own anything that won’t hang on her.

The perfume of her scent rolls over him like a wave – she’s moved close – and his eyes nearly cross when a slender hand reaches into the drawer alongside his to pluck a t-shirt from the top of the pile.

Oh, god, she almost touched him – and he very nearly swallows his tongue when she takes a pair of his boxer shorts too and chirps, “This will do just fine! Thank you, Alpha.”

She said it again, and he is rapidly developing a problem, a very serious problem in his pants.

“My name is Ben,” he chokes before making a hasty retreat for the door, sure that the sight of her standing in his room holding his t-shirt and shorts knowing she’s going to be _wearing_ them and sleeping here, in his bed, is enough to provide him with jerk-off material for the next fifty years.

He’ll never need to buy another dirty magazine again. Especially when he glances over his shoulder before pulling the door closed and catches her beaming smile as she murmurs, “I’m Rey. It’s very nice to meet you… _Ben_.”

Of course, he doesn’t grab anything to sleep in for himself. He’s so flustered it utterly slips his mind.

He heads down the hall. The guest bed is comfortable enough, but every time he closes his eyes all he can think of is her and the sweet little dimples in her cheeks and how they deepened just so when she said his name and _oh_ , it makes him hard.

He wills himself to settle down, though, since he’s left his door open a crack so he can listen for her in case she needs anything or, in case an intruder breaks in and tries to get her, he can be ready.

This last might be a bit of a stretch since the only other person who knows she’s here is the building’s doorman and his shift is ended by now and Ben knows he’s married with three kids and probably wouldn’t want to tangle with Ben anyhow. Ben is twice his size and he has a feeling he learned a little something about hand-to-hand combat before his amnesia, and so long as tasers aren’t involved, Ben is quite certain he can handle himself in a fight.

Down the hall, there’s nothing but silence from behind his closed bedroom door, nothing but the scent of her teasing his nose, and his whole apartment is going to smell like her by morning and this pleasant thought soothes him. A soft hum rumbles out of his chest and he smiles faintly, suddenly quite exhausted as he drifts to sleep.

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Once she’s sure he’s out, it’s no trouble at all to get to work remaking her dress into something more appropriate for wearing here, on Carnegie Hill. Although it didn't seem like much of a hill when he carried her home.

Still, the Alpha is just the loveliest, broodiest, handsomest one she’s ever met, although she’s quite surprised they didn’t run across any others on the way here.

She strips out of her clothes and dons his rather odd ones after poking through his drawers and the basket in the water room, which holds a delightful assortment of laundry that smells like him and which she assumes is stored there and up for grabs to be used however one likes.

It’s not scattered on the floor by the bed, and this comforts her. He clearly wasn’t expecting company and the whole way here she was worried beyond measure he would be bringing her home only to announce he has a mate. He didn’t smell mated, but one can never be sure, especially in a strange place such as this.

Deciding she likes a tidy Alpha, she tucks a few odd items under his pillowcase, so his delicious scent will lull her to sleep just as soon as she finishes remaking her dress into a less fussy version of itself. Something that will fit into this world a bit more.

It’s easy enough to snap her fingers and transform one of his tie pins into a needle and a few strands of her hair easily form a spool of thread. She wonders just _how_ he intends to find her some clothes when she didn’t spot a single seamstress or even a cobbler on the way here, either.

Nevertheless, his clothes must come from somewhere, and she finds a whole stash of very nice dress shirts in his closet.

Between these and her ballgown, she fashions a ruffley top and a pair of trousers, making a smart-looking two-piece outfit that will do just fine until they can find her something else. And there’s some _lovely_ fabric on the fringed decoration pillows, which she carefully shreds and stitches into a patchwork shawl. They make excellent decoration indeed.

After some trial and error, she manages to use a few long silk strips of fabric in bright colors to form a belt of sorts – he has a glorious collection in his closet – and then, she goes into the water room to assess her hair.

She caught plenty of looks on the way here, but she evaluated the other people, too, all moving with such haste and an utter lack of concern for anyone around them.

Such an odd place.

She closes her eyes and imagines the hairstyles of the various women she saw on the way here, trying out each one with a scrunch of her nose and a purse of the lips until she finds something that looks more in line with the world she’s landed in.

Settling on a pleasing style, which is much shorter, she smiles at her reflection. Her new hairstyle is less cumbersome, and it makes her head feel light while it shows off the squarish line of her jaw and chin. She wonders if the Alpha, Ben his name is, will approve. She suspects he will, and a few threads of warm anticipation weave themselves into her already fluttering heart.

Oooh, now _his_ hair is just the most gorgeous she’s seen in a good long while, the color of soot and thick and wavy. He wears it long and almost, _almost_ shaggy, but it’s very handsome and she wants to run her fingers through it and feel it tickling her face. She very nearly pops down the hall to have another look before remembering he needs to sleep, especially after carrying her all this way, even though she was perfectly capable of walking. Still, she did cast a spell to make sure he gets some rest, since he seems like the sort who might want to snoop on her while she’s sleeping.

This might be awkward because she plans on falling asleep to the scent of his laundry stuffed into the pillows and he might think the action a bit presumptuous.

He seems a bit edgy and strong-willed. These qualities she possesses herself, in abundance, no less, but in a big, strong Alpha like him, well…he’s _perfect_. She doesn’t want to frighten him off by coming on too strong, particularly since she needs his help.

She needs all the help she can get, so she can get back to Chandrila and her throne and avenge herself on the evil, horrible, most-relentless _bitch_ who ever lived, her own stepmother. The one who sent her here.

All because of a terrible misunderstanding and a few escalating magic spells that turned out to be rather ill-advised in retrospect, but were certainly not justifiable cause to trick Rey into drinking that potion.

But, regrettably, Rey _was_ tricked and she drank the potion with her own hand, and it landed her in this strange, overwhelming city where there are no other Alphas or Omegas in sight and even the Betas seem a tad too aggressive and everything is just very peculiar.

The way back will be difficult, but she’s sure there _is_ a way back and she’s even more sure that the Alpha’s memory has been tampered with.

Which means it can be untampered with. Or tampered with some more to reveal what he knows.

And she’s sure whoever sent her here also sent him, the big, broody Alpha with lips made for kissing and hair made for touching and pretty brown eyes made to get lost in and a scent that makes her toes curl in her slippers.

She’ll just need to investigate some more, really make sure he isn’t faking or that he's some agent sent ahead of time to trick her and keep her here, although this seems like a long shot.

_I will get back to Chandrila and take my throne from that evil, horrid, no-good usurper. And I'm going to convince this Alpha to help me._

With her penchant for magic and destruction and his obvious willingness to please, what could possibly go wrong?

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	3. Scones and Magic

# Chapter Three – Scones and Magic

He blinks awake and his very first thought is that he fell asleep after all, despite his best intentions to stay awake so he could perhaps peek in on her in the night and catch a vision of her lovely hair spread over his pillow and maybe drink in the sight of her in his bed for an hour or two.

His second thought is something is burning.

_Shit. Fire._

In one bounding leap, he jumps out of the guest bed and stumbles over a few boxes of inventory, flinging open the door and rushing to the kitchen, the source of the acrid tang of smoke.

To his very great astonishment, Rey is there, wearing one of his aprons and an outfit of unknown origins and her lovely hair has been chopped short, which looks delightfully modern and sexy, and she is frowning at the oven.

“Good morning!” she greets cheerfully, before returning her consternated stare to the smoke, lightly billowing from the oven. “Where in heaven’s name is the chimney?”

Before the smoke alarm starts blaring, he rushes forward and turns the dial to "off", and handily snags a small fire extinguisher from under the sink. She steps back to give him room and he opens the door, causing even more smoke to pour into the kitchen.

Her nose wrinkles at the smell, but she only watches him quickly don a set of oven mitts and remove the smoldering pan to the sink where he proceeds to hastily douse it with water until only the charred remains of his second favorite casserole dish and a lingering haze to indicate how closely disaster was averted.

“Are you all right?” he asks, hurriedly cracking a window, then the glass door to the balcony and taking up a towel to fan the smoke in the direction of the chill morning air.

“Well, I was trying to make something to eat. But I must have got it wrong somehow.”

She looks perturbed.

“I can’t believe I slept so late,” Ben informs her, glancing at the kitchen clock. “I would have made you some breakfast.”

Just then, the smoke alarm emits an earsplitting alert, and he hurries to switch the damned thing off.

She looks a tad deflated but perks up again when his eyes sweep over her ensemble with obvious appreciation.

A dull red flush climbs over his face and he quickly clears his throat. “Um. You look really nice.”

Suddenly, he’s a flurry of motion, scrambling to put on a kettle and dig through the freezer for scones to warm up in the toaster oven. He’d have made some from scratch but…well, he was sleeping.

Dreaming, actually. And he doesn’t recall all of the dream, but it definitely left him with a lingering sense of possibility. Of anticipation.

And, despite the smoke, the whole apartment smells like her now, just as he suspected it would. The scent alone warms him as he casts her several furtive glances while he starts assembling breakfast.

She settles onto a stool at the kitchen island, happy to watch him in his element, and as he goes through the familiar motions of making coffee and warming scones and opening a fresh jar of strawberry preserves that he made himself last summer and putting some crème fraiche – also made from scratch – into a dish, he draws reassurance from her observant presence.

If nothing else, this is a comfortable routine, making food, and before hardly any time has passed at all, she’s got a napkin tied round her neck so as not to drip jam onto her outfit and she’s exclaiming over the coffee and the lovely scones – her words! – and complimenting everything until he's nearly bursting with pride, which needs a bit of a boost after last night.

Just because she slept in his bed and wore his shorts – would it be too presumptuous to wear them after her so he can get her scent all over? God, he’s never doing laundry again, at least not anything of hers, no, and he suddenly develops a very specific fantasy of wearing only t-shirts and shorts that she’s slept in from this point forward. In fact, he’s busily devising a way to maintain a constant supply without tipping her off, when he realizes he’s staring.

And drooling.

He’s drooling – not noticeably – but enough for him to swallow a few times, and to cover it up, he takes a too-quick sip of too-hot coffee and manfully gulps it down even if it scorches his esophagus a bit. She watches him and chatters away, commenting on the lovely collection of silk strips she found. He belatedly realizes she’s helped herself to a number of his neckties – which is fine, absolutely fine – to fashion a belt for her outfit.

The belt draws attention to her tiny waist and he takes perhaps a moment or two too long to admire it, the belt, not the waist, well maybe this too, but she clearly wants him to look and if he averts his gaze, she might think him terribly rude and perhaps even disapproving, and dammit to hell, he’s drooling again and why is she so pretty?

“I hope it’s all right?”

With concerted effort, his expression rights itself and he chastises himself yet again for gawping like a teenager.

“Uh, of course. Of course!” He says this last with too much enthusiasm, and her brow quirks up.

Charming. Adorable.

She’s just perfection, really.

Eyeing her again, he realizes she’s actually made a whole new outfit, and, while perfectly appropriate, is not going to be enough if she’s planning to–

“Will you be staying a while?”

Her hazel eyes widen and she looks around. “Is it…? I mean, I don’t…”

Ah. Despite their conversation last night, she must have amnesia, too, he thinks. Her earlier confusion and now again, yes, there’s no other explanation for her helpless appeal, if not spoken aloud then undoubtedly writ upon her pretty face.

“Of course, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like!” he hastily interjects. _You can stay forever if you want._ “I only wonder if we ought to get you some clothes and, er, necessities while you’re here?”

“Oh, so they do have seamstresses here!” she sighs, seemingly relieved, and he latches on to the exclamation with a hearty nod.

“They do,” he agrees, scooping another dollop of jam onto her scone. “And weavers and tailors and cordwainers and cobblers, too. And apothecaries with the most wondrous things. Soaps and candles that smell like anything and everything you can imagine.” He finds himself seized by an immediate regret for mentioning the apothecary, or the drug store, as Hux calls it, as it strikes him she might wish to cover her tantalizing scent as per the current fashion with other ladies of Ben’s acquaintance. Quickly moving on, he adds, “Whatever you need, it’s nearby. I can take you to the department store.” This he says carefully, recalling the unfamiliar term with some trepidation as he’s not entirely certain they’ll have everything she needs.

Perhaps ladies need different sorts of stores. He can check with Hux later on this.

She demolishes another scone and he refills her coffee cup and wonders if he ought to make her something else to eat, watching avidly as she licks his jam off her fingers and nearly makes his eyes cross as her little pink tongue flicks delicately over each digit.

“What’s a department store?” She cocks her head, and he searches for an explanation.

He recalls his first trip to Bergdorf’s. He was with Hux, buying essentials, which included new decorative pillows in housewares and a few pans and undershorts and other clothes. It was when he was picking out socks that he realized the place was a marvel of design. Such a variety of wares collected under one roof and displayed so attractively in well-lit glass cases! And filled an abundance of attentive staff, helpful and eager to please.

“It’s got everything! It’s really good there. I think you’ll like it.”

Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure they have women’s clothes there, too. He’s somewhat excited to take her and show the place off, see her expression as she discovers each new thing. After all, his initial foray was a pleasantly enjoyable venture and he quite enjoys going back whenever he can.

While unfamiliar with this particular venue of commerce at first, Ben took to shopping as a duck takes to water, or so Hux informed him wryly after handing him a black card, smaller than one from a playing deck and apparently valuable.

“Don’t lose this. Buy whatever pleases you,” Hux instructed.

After surreptitiously observing his fellow shoppers, Ben quickly realized the card works like gold, and, with Hux’s guidance and the assistance of a few determined shopkeepers, he was able to outfit himself with all of the clothes and shoes and equipment required to groom himself so he fits into civilized society, just like everyone else.

Fitting in is very important, Ben knows, especially so one doesn’t attract the unwelcome attention of the police, the horse police in particular, who seem to prefer patrolling Central Park and the surrounding area with far too much gusto for his liking. But at the department store, he was delighted to find a plentiful selection of housewares, which he took great pleasure in selecting, deliberating over the sheets and towels and cookware for so long, Hux was forced to drag him away with the promise he could return soon.

And he did return. When left to his own devices, he still enjoys wandering through the place just to peruse the goods on display and sometimes to feel the presence of other people nearby without having to actually interact directly with any of them.

But he spends plenty of time at the bookstore, too, and now that he thinks on this, he should call Rose and let her know he’ll be in later today, if at all.

Truthfully, he’d much rather take Rey shopping than sit around his dusty old books all day.

Besides, if he can convince her to settle in for a while, at least long enough for him to show her around Manhattan a bit, then perhaps she'll be here long enough to make good and sure the scent of her permeates the entire apartment and lingers for a while.

And the mattress. Oh, he definitely needs to give it plenty of time to soak in there, too.

And…

She moans as she finishes the last crumbs of her third scone, and the sound is so terribly sexy, it’s almost painful.

Shit, he’s drooling again.

The smoke has cleared with almost magical alacrity, any danger long past, and yet he fiddles with the dishes and wiping down the counters and keeping an eye on her coffee mug, wanting to linger in her presence but also needing to take a few minutes so he can at least have a quick shower and change out of yesterday’s rumpled clothes.

Perhaps he can figure out a way to make her stay.

And when it’s time for him to have another _episode_ , well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

For now, he tops off her coffee one last time and returns her bright smile with one of his own and his heart swells with genuine pride when she declares this the best breakfast she’s ever had.

“I’ll make the scones fresh tomorrow. That is, er, if you’ll stay?”

She gives him a beaming smile. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

“Good,” he returns. “In that case, I need to, uh, get washed up and dressed for shopping. Help yourself to anything you want, although, maybe…” Pausing delicately, he glances to the oven.

“I promise I won’t try to cook anything else!” she giggles, then bites her bottom lip and flutters her eyelashes.

To his delighted surprise, she springs from her perch on the stool and throws her arms around his neck, and presses a hesitant kiss to his cheek. When he has to duck his head, she goes up on her tiptoes, too, and it’s only natural for him to steady her by wrapping his hands around her waist and it is as tiny as he remembers from last night. His pulse gallops into an uneven sprint.

He knows it's only her inherent charm, but for just a second he indulges in the brief fantasy that she might be as enamored of him as he is growing to be of her.

Fucking hell, she’s too sweet for words.

Suddenly finding himself quite eager to get into the shower and relieve a very _specific_ problem, he blushes and stammers, “I’ll just be a minute or two. There’s ahh…”

“Go on! I’ll be fine.” She bustles over to his impressively stocked bookcase – surely a prerequisite for any true bookstore owner worth his salt – and makes a show of ignoring him so he can skulk away without revealing the growing, that is to say, emerging, _situation_ in his pants.

And it doesn’t strike him until he’s locked in his room, eyeing the mattress where she evidently spent the night, noticing the lumps under the pillowcases, and realizing she’s stuffed his dirty laundry inside, that she's got the same peculiar ability he does. Every neuron in his brain fires off at once when he concludes that she could smell him, smell what he was…not thinking exactly, no, but feeling.

Double-checking that he’s locked the door, he turns to the bed and buries his face in a pillow.

Her. It smells like her.

And even better, it smells like him, too.

Them, together.

It smells like heaven.

No. Better than heaven.

_Magic._

He emerges from the shower fifteen minutes later and significantly more relieved than he was, having quickly and methodically resolved his frantic desire for his newfound roommate by the simple expedient of jacking off.

He’d stripped down, carefully leaving his laundry in the bin for Rey to find, knowing she will probably seek it out later, as she did last night. His dick stood at full attention, and he caught sight of it in the mirror over the vanity. He spent a minute turning from side to side to give it a critical evaluation. The swelling at the base only happens sometimes, but at the moment it looked normal enough, if not significantly larger than what he typically used to see on the internet, before he stopped looking online altogether. 

He glanced to the laundry bin again and debated adding a little _extra_ scent before growing so horrified by the intensity of this erotic imagining, it only took thirty seconds under the spray of warm water in the shower, focusing very much on that particular moan she made in the kitchen, a gorgeous, spontaneous indication of sensual bliss, before he choked out the quietest orgasm he’s ever had.

Shocked and vaguely appalled with himself – heaven forbid she thinks he has anything but the utmost respect – he stared at the thick, creamy evidence of his untoward lust spattered and dripping down the tiles and, while part of him was rather impressed by the sheer _volume_ of it, another part wondered if she’d be equally as appalled over what he had just done.

And another, darker, perhaps more shameful part of him, wondered if she’d _like_ it. Maybe she has strange sexual tastes, too. Maybe just as bizarre as his own apparently are.

After all, she did seem to know what to do with the dirty laundry, even if she can’t cook.

This reminder spurs him into action, and after rinsing the evidence of his depravity away, he hurries to ready himself for the day, only pausing when he finds the shorts she wore to sleep last night bundled in the corner of his dresser drawer. Although he’s tempted, he leaves them firmly where they are.

If she could smell how much he wanted her earlier, then she’ll absolutely notice if he’s wearing her used shorts and draw the inevitable conclusion he’s a raging degenerate.

Which he is. But, still. Even if he _does_ have inexplicable, routine bouts of perversion that cannot be helped, those incidents only arrive at certain, specific times, and he can keep himself under control in the meantime. For her sake.

He won’t have her feeling uncomfortable or unsafe or in any way threatened in his presence, and this bolsters him like nothing else. She doesn’t need sex – ugh, no matter how amazing it would be – and she doesn’t need him panting after her when he doesn’t even know if she has a boyfriend or a husband or a mate already waiting for her somewhere.

Privately, Ben thinks anyone who loses track of such a prize maybe doesn’t deserve to keep her. He rapidly develops a very specific, extremely new philosophy of all’s fair in love and war.

Yes, anyone who allowed her out of his sight for more than a minute is just going to have to contend with some competition.

But this doesn’t change the fact she has amnesia.

She needs clothes and care and a safe place to stay until she can remember how to find her family or home or whatever. She doesn’t need some horny pervert breathing down her neck – no matter how lovely her neck may be – and making her feel uneasy, and she definitely shouldn’t be scared into leaving here and venturing out into the city on her own. She might encounter a criminal or, in Ben’s mind even worse, the authorities. 

So, he’ll just have to hold it, since sticking with him is what's best for her. If nothing else, he is sure of this one truth and it lends him the courage he needs.

If he finds himself too overcome with sexual frustration while she’s here, he’ll just have to find something productive to occupy him.

Maybe he can turn this into a positive and do some baking, hone his talents as a low-key way of showing off.

She did like the scones.

_Scones are nothing._

_Wait until she tries one of my cupcakes._

If his scones earned him a kiss on the cheek, well, that's all well and good. A small flutter of excitement tickles him and he takes one last sniff at her pillow, his eyes practically rolling back in his head at the thought of what she might do if he bakes her a whole cake or a chocolate soufflé or…or…

The possibilities are endless.

But shopping first.

Then he can woo her properly, as a gentleman should, and present her with sweets and little gifts and maybe even a breathtaking excursion or two. Perhaps a trip to the top of the Empire State Building, where she might be inspired to cling to his arm at the sheer thrill of being so far up, or maybe to a Broadway show, something that might make her gasp or cry and require a handkerchief, which he can have conveniently at the ready, just for her.

He can take her everywhere, anywhere she wants. Central Park and Radio City, and maybe even the ballet and definitely they’ll need to tour all of the museums and galleries and visit the zoo and…

There’s so much to do here, surely he can find a way to get her into his arms again.

And so long as he manages to keep his odd sexual proclivities to himself, he's sure he can encourage another kiss or two. If he plays his cards right, he might even get a kiss on the lips next time, instead of the cheek.

Although he must remind himself that any affection at all is more than he should hope for, and he ought to be realistic and keep his head on, particularly since Rey is very much a woman of her own mind, even if it's a little lost for now. He knows the feeling, knows it very well indeed.

This makes him smile fondly. While she clearly needs help learning how to use an oven, she certainly has no trouble taking what she needs. He glances to the closet where half of his ties hang in shredded disarray alongside a few of his dress shirts, also destroyed beyond repair.

He’ll just need to make sure she sees how handy he is to have around, is all. And he’s prepared to make himself quite indispensable.

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**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter for fic updates, DMs, and occasional thirst tweets and rampant horniness! [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy)  
>   
> My works:
> 
> A/B/O:  
> [House of The Rising Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512809/chapters/51276604) (A/B/O, Epic Scale Fantasy with a Canon-flavor, Read the tags, WIP to resume soon)  
> [The Wickedy Witch of Carnegie Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450107/chapters/64445872) (A/B/O, Enchanted AU, Fluffy, Sweet, Low-angst, WIP)  
> [First Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978156) (Preylo, A/B/O, quick and FILTHY, COMPLETE)  
> [Bad Neighbors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874359) (A/B/O, cop/lawyer, enemies-to-lovers, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Darker Stuff:  
> [Dirty Deeds](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28675278) (DARK, BREYLO, BENLO, one-shot that may be more someday)  
> [creep](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/25554175/chapters/62008714) (Stalker, DARKFIC, Thriller, WIP)  
> [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740) (Soulmates, Killers, COMPLETE)  
> [Little Animals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902718) (DARKFIC, SMUT, Read the Tags, COMPLETE)  
> [GatorWestern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502323) (Vampire/Horror WIP, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Short and Smutty:  
> [Double Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903981/chapters/47144941) (Breylo, Benlo, Absolutely raunchy filth, smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Smoke Gets In Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231210) (Short fic, stoner soulmates, filthy smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Fire Down Below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659043/chapters/49061249) (Filthy two-shot, Porn AU, crack, COMPLETE)  
> [Freak Show](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098873) (Circus AU, Comedy, one-shot series)  
> [Special Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836562) (one-shot)  
> [Urinal Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412686) (one-shot, no urine or cakes involved, I swear!)  
>   
> Long and Plotty (and also Smutty):  
> [Say It With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710287) (Funny, Escort/Sugar Daddy AU, smutty, COMPLETE)  
> [Music To My Ears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121106) (Classical Music/Assassins AU, re-booting WIP)  
> [Devil on the Dark Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287023) (Modern Hades/Persephone Fairy Tale WIP, one more chapter to go!)  
>   
> Also: [Into That Good Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437334/chapters/53609257) (Sweet, Rated M, Emotional, COMPLETE)
> 
> Currently, Cake, American Stars, Knotting Hill, Every Which Way But Loose, and The Secret Flower Club are all waiting behind hidden doors until I wrap up a few other WIPs.  
> Although my WIPs are in varying stages of progress, I can promise none of them are abandoned, just resting. :)
> 
> XOXO!


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